Recrudescence
by shipperfey
Summary: Late S7 AU-- Buffy lost Dawn and Xander in the final battle against the First Evil. Now Buffy and Spike need to find themselves as they deal with the aftermath of the tragedy. Revised April, 2008.


**Title: Recrudescence  
Author:** Alice J. Foster

**Summary:** Late S7 AU_-- _Buffy lost Dawn and Xander in the final battle against the First Evil. Now Buffy and Spike need to find themselves as they deal with the aftermath of the tragedy. _Revised April, 2008. _  
**Category: **angst, alternate universe, character death.  
**Spoilers:** Season 7  
**Rating: R** for language and mature themes.

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**Recrudescence**

\Recrudes"cence\, 1. To break out anew or come into renewed activity,  
as after a period of quiescence.

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Chapter 1

The whiskey burns her throat like acid. Her body registers the alcohol and tries to fight it before embracing it wholly and releasing all the poison to her bloodstream. She feels lightheaded, limbs and stomach throbbing incessantly.

Brown hair frames her face, cascading down to her breasts in soft curls. She glances at a mirror inconveniently placed in the bar and sees a total stranger. Someone else -- someone who isn't her… because if she isn't her, nothing happened and she can live in denial.

If she is not her, then there is no lost sister, no bruised past. There are no victories or losses, just a blank slate. If she can close her eyes and pretend, she could forget everything-- create memories that aren't hers...

She'll create a few happy memories, because she is entitled to them… then a few bleak memories as well, in this fabricated universe, because anything would be better than the truth; better than the memory of watching him leave.

The alcohol helps her in the make-believe game. She barely notices the guy who sits himself next to her; no, she doesn't notice him until he places a shot of forgetfulness in front of her. She flashes him one of her powerful smiles, just because she still can.

She doesn't remember what name she gives him when he inquires. It doesn't matter anyway; anonymity is the only thing keeping her sane these days. He wants to know more, she makes up lies... she's gotten good at lying.

_Love. Hate. Passion. Hatred. Promises. Truth._

All those words had lost their meaning. When her lips awkwardly crash against the stranger's, she feels nothing. When his hands feel her up in a dark corner of the bar, she still can't feel anything stirring inside her. Still she goes on like she's done a dozen times over the past few months; she goes on because she needs to know if anything can ever feel that good again.

She goes on, because stopping would mean that he was right.

It doesn't matter that she can't come with this one. He's just like the other ones, but she only acknowledges it when her thighs are already smeared with his semen and she's left unsatisfied.

Different men every night; some are just boys in her eyes. Twenty years of a normal life seem so young compared to her experience. Still she does it, because someday she's going to find someone who can make her feel again.

Someday, she won't need the alcohol or the memories of him to make herself come.  
It hurts to remember him - hurts because even though remembering is the only way she can feel, the memories inevitably bring forth the painful truth: he left her.

As she closes her eyes in the unfamiliar bed, Buffy Summers wonders how many more tears she has left to cry.

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Chapter 2

He has always enjoyed the heat of the sun-- so dangerous to his kind, to be so close to the blaring golden rays, but he doesn't care. He never did care - except for when he was with her.

Jamaica has an apparently endless supply of high-quality blood and beautiful scenery… sometimes he just stands by the window, just out of reach from direct sunlight, and he stares at the beach. He sees the sun reflected in the clear water and he itches to chase it. Then he ignores the pseudo-suicidal thoughts and starts once again to resent her for making him yearn for the sun.

He wishes he could make the dreams stop. All those one hundred and forty-seven nights he had longed to bring her back... yes, saving her every night only made him even more miserable when he woke up.

Dreaming is more painful now.

He remembers how many times he picked up the phone, in several cities all over the world. So many places…

There would be no Dawn to answer the phone. No Whelp either... and he still can't deal with the Watcher. Last he heard, Willow had left Sunnydale for whatever city Kennedy had chosen - trading one Slayer for another. Not that he could blame any of them for moving on.  
One day he'd finally had the gut to put a call through. He dialed all the familiar numbers to him - familiar from sheer memorization, even if he had seldom dialed any of those places himself. Automated messages informed him that every single one of those numbers had been disconnected.

All their lives were disconnected.

He had been the one to walk out. Final battle, semi-victory. It was over and so much of it was his fault - surprisingly, everyone disagreed with him. They said it'd been no one's fault - such evil could not have been created by any of them. It hurt that Buffy had been the quiet one... she hadn't disagreed, or argued.

He left without looking back. Now he exists, haunted by his past; haunted not by past mistakes, but because he can't live any of it again.

They all made so many choices... so many fucked up and twisted choices. He accepts most of them, but he often wonders which one was the true trigger.

Every night he hates Dru for being chased by an angry mob in Prague, and all the events that led them to Sunnydale... it's easier to blame Dru than it is to blame her.

He can't hate Buffy for more than five seconds every hour. But the hatred is still there, branded on his skin and soul. He wants to hater her like he hates Dru... but he can't.

Sometimes he dreams of Dru and for those minutes or hours he doesn't hate his Sire... for those moments he loves her and his mind wonders how it would've been if that Chaos demon had not crossed their path. No soul, no pain, no glory, no tears, no blood, no chip...

_... no Buffy._

Whatever obsession he had for slayers would've died out, and his Dru wouldn't have left him time and time again. They would've traveled and fed and made love-- all like vampires were supposed to do.

_Out of sight..._

There'd be no memory of kissing Buffy. No memory of screwing her up and down, left and right. No memory of her smile, of the scent of her arousal, of the visual contrast of her peach-colored nipples against pale skin. No meaningful glances, no drunken giggles and no heartfelt confessions.

_That wouldn't do... _

Once again he allows himself to hate Buffy for just those five seconds before glancing out to watch the sunset.

He had always wished for what he couldn't have.

Chapter 3

The stench from the interior of the Greyhound bus definitely ranks up top with Worst Smells Buffy Summers Had Ever Inhaled. Sure, it was a very competitive list and these days it seemed to grow even more, but the validity of the stench should definitely not be questioned.

Then why the hell was she suddenly so reluctant to leave the bus?

The bus driver, mistaking her hesitation for need of help, offers to lend Buffy a hand, which she quickly turns down and she finally gets up.

Buffy forces herself to smile and the impact of her feet upon the pavement feels as if the entire world has turned upside down…

… or it is finally in its right place once again

Sunnydale seems so different. Perhaps it is because she's seen the world?

Buffy Summers has seen the world, and yet, against her own good sense, decided to come back to California.

Bad memories flood her mind and force her to close her eyes. The city smells of so many things...

For one second she thinks she can't do it; there's absolutely no way she can face so many old ghosts - ghosts of people who still live, ghosts of people who died, most of all the ghosts of her past. _Before,_ in all its glory and pain.

She turns in search of the bus, but it has left already. She's always too late; they all have left her already by the time she makes up her mind.

There are no houses to visit, only graves. She never wished for her own future in Sunnydale - yet it had always seemed impossible to leave. Duty, her mother, Dawn, Giles, Willow, Xander, all anchoring her in the town, anchoring her to life. Now it was all gone - they were all gone.

She had her opportunities to leave. She did once for three months. This time it has been three years since she last smelled the Southern California air, but it doesn't seem so long because there was no one to come back to. Deep down she also knew she had to return - but not for herself. Nothing would ever be for herself again.

Now it was all about Ellie.

Unwilling to face the ghosts of Revello Drive so soon, Buffy sets for the motel by the bus station. The weight of the bags on her back is nothing compared to the weight her infant daughter exerts on her; such a heavy burden.

Everything for Ellie.

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Chapter 4

This time, he enters the town by plane. The Sunnydale Airport was never more than a restaurant for him once before, filled with tourists whose deaths wouldn't raise anyone's suspicion.

This time, the cargo area in the airplane was too small, the flight too long and the hunger strong, but he managed… he's been through worse.

He's always drawn to the Hellmouth, even if they shut it down three years ago… exactly three years ago.

Coming back has become a ritual.

The first time he reached Sunnydale, he was sick to death over Dru. The second time, he was drunk. It's all been downhill since. But at least now he has a purpose - a solid, valid purpose.

Every year he visits her grave on the anniversary of her death. There are always fresh flowers on her grave, undoubtedly brought by all of her high school mates. There are messages written and placed by the marble stone where her name lies. He reads over them, but they don't know the truth; the messages are filled with misinformation and pain and he ends up always putting them back and hating them.

He always steals flowers for her; only Summers women can make him steal flowers.

Summers women, with their tombstones and their sadness, the morbidity that surrounds them and the empty space they leave in his heart. Some spaces are bigger than others, but they're always so hard to fill in that he's deemed it impossible.

But yes, he has a ritual. Every year he comes to her grave first. Then he takes the long way to the house on Revello Drive and tries to pass every spot that reminds him of Dawn. There's the alley where she broke her arm; the Magic Box, which has been turned into a bookstore that would make Giles proud; the mall she always hung out; the stores she stole from. The town is filled with memories of her…

…and memories of Buffy. Oh, those are inevitable, but he's coming to terms with the absurdity that is Buffy Summers and their twisted almost-relationship.

The empty house has always symbolized the losses of its owners. He never saw a realty sign or people checking it out; it's always just a vast space that echoes his footsteps as he walks in the dark. Someone must take care of it, because on the previous years the grass was always neatly trimmed, leaves swept up and flowers well watered.

The house was like a concoction out of seashells… if he was still enough, he could hear the illusory sounds of life. He wonders what he will hear this year when he reaches it.

Only one more block…

Chapter 5

Buffy doesn't have nightmares anymore. She wonders if it's because she is never able to reach a deep state of slumber these days or simply her fears of dreaming.

Ever since Ellie was born, she hasn't slept for more than five hours. Ellie never wakes her up, sleeping over eight hours each night. Buffy carries bags under her eyes nonetheless, smiling politely when the grocery store cashier makes a gracious comment about young parents and lack of sleep. In sleepless nights, she wonders if they could ever suspect the truth - if they could ever suspect how close Buffy came to getting rid of Ellie.

It wouldn't have been too hard. She did it twice before, all within months of one another.  
Not meant to be, her mind tells her but she doesn't believe it. Why had it been different with Ellie?

The father - the stranger had been like all the others. Buffy is surprised that she can actually pinpoint him, but she can. She had been in New York City, another bar, another night. He was cute, nothing special. Tall with copper hair, built like a football player.

She always went for the ones that didn't remind her of him.

Unsafe sex had been her way to say 'fuck you' to life. She had wanted to die, wanted to be sick; she wondered just how crazy could Syphilis make her, how sick could she get and still live. Would Slayer strength be enough to help her if her spirit was broken?

But she never got sick, just pregnant.

With Ellie, her name had been jotted down in some appointment book of a clinic in St. Louis. Some doctor had been prepared to help her with her 'situation.' There would've been strangers to support her and to criticize her, but in the end she walked away.

She was tired of the pain - tired of that life and tired of the ugly world she'd seen. She spent the next seven months going around the world. Her passport was marred with several stamps, from all the corners of the map—all because she was never able to show Dawn the beautiful things of the world like she'd promised.

She traveled with nothing but a backpack and a black & white camera. She took pictures and jotted down thoughts and memories on a scrapbook: Ellie's scrapbook.

In Italy, they wouldn't allow her to board the plane because she was too far along. Security reasons, they claimed and she had no doctor affidavit. So she traveled by train, by bus - by whatever means she could find, taking pictures of strangers and foreign places.

Ellie was born in Greece, two days before she was due. Most beautiful baby they had ever seen, the nurses promised. In the following morning, Buffy found strength to walk to the balcony of her hospital room and take a picture of the horizon.

It was the last picture for the scrapbook.

Five days later, they were landing on LAX. A couple hours later, their bus reached Sunnydale. And now, three months have passed and Buffy still can't tell how much everything has changed, she could just know it has.

The house still smells of ghosts, but the smell of death has long passed - or simply stopped bothering Buffy. She bought new furniture and redecorated. The kitchen still needs work done and the basement holds all the junk that still needs to be sold at a garage sale that insists in not happening. She's going to build another bathroom upstairs, as well as a guest room downstairs… maybe it will take a few years, but at least she has plans.

She will eventually turn on her phone line; that's still too big a step to take. For now she'll finish safe-guarding all the cabinet doors because in just a matter of months, Ellie'll be crawling around the house.

She's getting big… growing older. Ellie's eyes are chocolate-brown, unlike her parents'. Her hair is a medium blonde that's getting darker as it grows, accentuating her beautiful alabaster skin perfectly.

Looking at her bedtable clock, Buffy sighs. Still too early – well, too late. Ellie's sleeping, and Buffy thinks maybe she had time for a shower; before she can get out of bed though, she hears a noise.

In panic she realizes it's coming from Ellie's bedroom.

Chapter 6

Spike grimly admits that he lacks the grace he once had in leaping from the tree-branch into the window of the second-story bedroom. The fact that he's inside the room and not sprawled on the grass, lying on his ass, indicates that Buffy is still indeed the owner of the house, otherwise he would've never a new invitation.

He tries to move and while the dark poses no obstacle to him, the baby crib in the middle of the room does…

_…baby crib?_

Spike looks and assures himself that it is, in fact, a baby crib. Worse than that, there is a baby inside it. A living baby.

He looks around the room and longs to see boy bands posters, and clothes strewn around the room, but there's just a nursery that smells like baby powder, along with some stuffed animals he recognizes and some brand new furniture he doesn't.

Ignoring the fact that the baby smells incredibly familiar, he walks around the room for a second, trying to familiarize himself with the new room.

This completely ruins his yearly ritual, a fact that irks him to no end, but it's almost as if the room still begs for his attention.

When Dawn was alive, this bedroom never seemed of great consequence. He was always striving for Buffy's chambers and the promises of the older sister's bed; he had no time to worry about Dawn's bedroom. Yet, the past two times he had returned to town, her room was always the first to be visited inside the house. There had been bed sheets thrown all over the furniture, reminding him briefly of his cousins' summer estate from his childhood, always covered in linens until the family arrived for their stay.

Now the house seems alive again. The baby snores in its crib and Spike can't help but look in. Judging by the pierced ears and the room decoration, he assesses it's a girl. If Buffy is still the owner of the house, then this must be-

No, it can't be.

There is some resemblance, but still-This could be someone else's child. It has to be.

The baby does smell like her, just more pure. Almost like…

…almost like Dawn.

Spike has never had time to truly appreciate babies. They had been a great delicacy to Dru, but one that had gotten harder to degust as new decades came upon. He just didn't feel the urge to eat them like other vampires, and he didn't feel the fuzzy warm feelings humans felt when facing infants.

This baby, however, is beautiful even to his layman eyes. He is not apt to guess her age, so he doesn't even try. If she is Buffy's-no, he can't grasp the concept.

Unable to stare at the child anymore, he once again stares around the room. Dawn's dresser still sits in the corner of the room, but is now buried under diaper bags and a plastic changer. He glances at the desktop and he sees that there are actually still a few pictures of Dawn - Dawn with Buffy, Dawn with Joyce, Dawn with the Scoobies, Dawn with friends…

But now there are other pictures as well. Black & white pictures of places he's been to in his early years… and pictures of a cherubim-faced baby. There are no dates and unlike the Dawn pictures, these are not framed, just haphazardly thrown on top of the desktop. Something catches the corner of his eyes and he reaches for it—

A leather-bound book. The brown leather cover is carved with three names: Dawn Elizabeth Summers. He opens the book without hesitation, and the inside cover says simply 'Ellie,' inscribed in an elegant handwriting that it's definitely familiar to him.

She has to be Buffy's daughter.

His throat closes in for a second and he starts putting the book down. Misjudging his ability to think and move coherently, the sound of the book falling on the floor startles him.

The baby's breathing pattern changes, and Spike reaches quickly for the book; he tries to deposit it back on the desktop without further noise.

He hears a distant door slamming open and steps coming in his direction, but he can't move. The sounds close in on him, and yet, his feet seem glued to the floor as if by magic.

He was never good at leaving.

Chapter 7

Her finger trembles against the crossbow trigger. Her mind is blinded by white fury as she pushes the door open, caution be damned. The vision she finds inside is both worse and better than she expected; altogether appalling and definitely unexpected.

Spike…

… Spike standing in her daughter's room as if it was his territory and no one else's.

Buffy feels her throat constricting with emotions she hadn't felt in years, but she doesn't lower the crossbow - in fact, her finger strengthens against the trigger. Her eyes run over his body in the dim light, recognizing the strength under the pale skin—he fought alongside her, she trusted him… but she can't know what he's become after everything was taken away.

What she does know is that she can't kill him without cause, not after everything. She puts down the crossbow and reaches out to turn on the lights. After a few more seconds, she blurts out a weak, "Spike?"

"One and only," he replies, nonchalantly.

"What are you doing here, in town—and here?" Buffy asks, motioning to the nursery around them.

He shrugs and doesn't meet her eye. "Didn't know you were back?"

Buffy's frown makes the new, unfamiliar lines around her face suddenly make an appearance. "If you didn't know I was back, then-" she pauses again, trying to find the right way to ask this, "-then what are you doing here?"

Spike closes his eyes. "I come here to say goodbye to her, every year."

Before Buffy can inquire any further, Ellie fusses in her sleep, protesting the conversation around her. Both adults stop dead in their tracks; Buffy starts to exit the room, tilting her head in invitation for Spike to join her.

Chapter 8

The kitchen has plastic tarps that smell of remodeling. Yet, underneath it all, Spike can smell milk, orange juice, toast and all of Dawn's cereals-- empty bowls strewn all over the sink and half-empty glasses on top of the island counter.

He doesn't blame Buffy in the least for remodeling. He would do the same if he had to deal with the pain every day.

"So, tell me about this ritual."

That's his-That's Buffy, straight to the point. "Not much to it. Every year, I…" he drifts off uncomfortably. "Well, I go visit her grave. And then I come here and I just try to-bloody hell, I try to remember her. And then I try to forget her, because it's not fair to the Nibblet that we're always mourning her."

"But why toda-" Buffy stops as realization hits. Her hand goes to cover her agape mouth, gasping in surprise and guilt. "Oh my God… it's today, isn't it? Things have been so… and there was-- god, I can't believe I forgot!"

Spike smells the tears in her eyes before he sees them, but he just stands there, unsure of what to do.

Buffy turns away from him as she tries to hide her emotions.

Spike takes his time to observe her figure. The shaking shoulders, only partly concealed by a nightshirt, the not-as-tiny-as-before waist, the extra pounds here and there; definitely the downside of childbirth, yet they make her look so much more healthy. Her hair is also changed, the light shade of brown unfamiliar to him, but beautiful. The curls, more abundant than he's ever seen, reach down to almost her waist, almost molding to her new curves.

He hears some sobbing and his hands itch to reach out, but he knows it won't do them any good. The sniffling stops and Buffy walks to the fridge, opening the door and staring in. "I don't even have beer or blood to offer you, but there's some liquor in the cabinet behind you, second door to the right," she informs him as she opens the freezer door and coming out empty-handed.

Spike serves himself before slouching against a counter behind him and facing her.

They share an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, neither meeting each other's eyes. Finally Buffy sits down across the island counter and sighs. "She wouldn't have left me forget… ever. When Mom died-- god, I was so lost and not myself, and when the first anniversary came up that Dawn had to remind me. She also reminded me the second year, even though I did remember it then. Yet, I knew… I just knew she wouldn't have let me forget, ever."

Spike meets her eyes briefly before turning away once again. "No use in beating yourself over it. It seems to me that you have enough in your mind at the moment," he remarks and points to the baby bottles in the sink.

For all it's worth, she actually blushes. A true, rare, Buffy-blush. "Things happened…"

"Obviously," he interrupts cockily.

"…and I'm still not exactly, erh, in terms with all of it, but…" she pauses and takes a deep breath… "It's good. It's great actually, even if it was not the way I saw my life three years ago. I saw no life for me three years ago, just pain and loneliness and more pain."

"I called the house," he admits, almost guiltily, "shortly after the battle and the whole aftermath. The watcher answered and said that you had fled and that Willow and Kennedy were leaving. He said that the few Potentials left were being shipped out in proper order," he stares at her with that look that can see completely through her sometimes. "You never came back, did you?"

Buffy shakes her head. "Too many memories. Every place in this house reminded me of Dawn and Xander. I couldn't live with it and after you--there was just no reason for me to stay. The Hellmouth was closed for good and demonic activity was bound to decrease with time. To tell the truth, I wasn't caring much for my duty as a Slayer at the time-- no, I actually enjoyed saying 'fuck it' as I left town." Buffy's mouth shadows a smirk for a second before it's gone. "I just went around… saw the world."

"Very nice souvenir you got yourself," Spike scorns as he points to the upstairs nursery. "Where is it from? Germany, Italy, France??"

This time Buffy actually smiles. "Greece, actually."

"A gift from the gods?" Spike continues, inexplicably cheered by their sudden banter.

"Something like that."

Buffy wants to elaborate, tell him more about Ellie, like the proud parent that she is, but the truth is that she doesn't know if he wants to hear it all. There was always uncertain ground around Spike, but this-- this is a whole new territory. She doesn't know where to step and she didn't know if she should walk or run.

Against her own better judgment, Buffy decides to say more about Ellie, for at least it was safe territory for her. "She's three months old… I still can't believe it. Things have changed so much; they say motherhood changes you, but this was beyond anything I've gone through before, and I've gone through more than most people. One minute it was just me and the world and the next? The next, it wasn't. After I decided to have her, it was the first time since-" Buffy's voice catches in her throat for a second before she forces herself to overcome it, "-first time since Dawn that anyone actually needed me. And suddenly it wasn't as overwhelming as it was with Dawn right after Mom died. I came back because of Ellie… she deserves to grow in a place like this. Sunnydale is not the perfect town, actually, it's the anti-Christ of towns, but it's home. I didn't realize that until it was too late."

"Is it just the two of you, then?" Spike asks staring at the empty glass of brandy he holds in his hand.

Buffy takes her time before replying, "Yes."

He absentmindedly nods.

"I named her after Dawn. But I know Dawn is gone, and I wanted Ellie to have her own identity." She looks around them dreamingly. "And I'm changing the house... I don't want to sell it because I'm afraid that one day, when it doesn't hurt as much, I'll regret getting rid of it. All the bad things that happened here--there were the good things too, you know? And I don't want to give up the good memories."

"Your mum would be proud." Spike notes.

Buffy shrugs, but smiles. "I guess. I just wish she could see Ellie; I just wish she could be here. And then I'm relieved she isn't, because it would've pained her so much to lose Dawn."

He serves himself another cup of alcohol while she stares out the window above the sink.

"How's the witch?" Spike finally asks after a few minutes.

"I'm not sure. I just sent her several postcards from all over the world… she must be wondering why they stopped coming. Last I heard, she and Kennedy were in New York, fighting demons and muggers. Giles is back in England."

"Do they know about Ellie?"

Buffy shakes her head. "God, no."

The truth is that part of her is afraid that if they knew about Ellie, and if they know she's back in Sunnydale, things are going to change again and she doesn't want that. Things are great now… she can't deal with everyone coming back into her life.

Buffy keeps on talking, because she hasn't talked to anyone who could talk back in so long. "Willow still blames me for Xander, you know? I still blame myself for some of it too. And Giles? He still resents everyone for bringing me back—I think he also resents himself for letting it happen. Part of me is afraid that if they come back, they'll try to bring me back to slaying again, and-I just can't. Not with Ellie. I can't afford to die."

"No, can't have you die again…" Spike adds softly.

"I might look for a job in a year or so, if money becomes an issue." She never thought that the family life insurance she'd bought would've paid her for Dawn's death; she'd gotten it in preparation of her own death.

"I take it you're set on staying in SunnyHell, then."

Buffy nods.

"Hellmouth closed or not, this town is still a bloody magnet, innit?"

"People who moved out three years ago, after the big fight? They're all starting to come back. New people too… last Fall, UC Sunnydale had its highest number of applicants ever. No more mysterious deaths in the newspaper, no more strange events and quasi-apocalypses—people are starting to think this is the next big suburban town."

"A place you can call home." Spike teases.

"Yeah. We did get two new cemeteries, though." She says with a fake grimace.

"A place _I_ can call home."

Despite herself, Buffy laughs at his small joke. "How about you? Where've you been?"

"Around."

"Last I heard, you were in L.A."

Spike snorts at the memory. "Didn't work out in the long run. Didn't really fit in the Los Angeles picture."

"Is that right?"

As he nods, Buffy takes time to really examine him for the first time tonight. Through her own aged eyes, she sees him older, even if she knows it is impossible. His style - or lack thereof - remains the same… same type of outfit he wore ten years ago as he tried to kill her.

How can things change and yet so much remains the same?

She tries to remember a time when the only thing she felt for him was hate, but she can't. Stuff got mixed in: pity and disdain at first, a shadow of compassion later, and then-- then other stuff came in, complicated stuff.

Hate was so much easier to deal with than this sea of anarchic feelings, all rebelling against her good reason. She wants to be mad at him for leaving, to resent him like she did every night for the past three years, but she can't now that he's in her kitchen. The real problem is that she doesn't know what she wants.

He's smiling against his glass, enraptured in his own thoughts and she catches it. "Life in the road has been treating you well, Spike. You look… great, actually. Happy, almost."

Chapter 9

He smiles again even as his eyebrows arch in surprise and disbelief. He nods but doesn't tell her that this vampire standing in her house is nothing like the shadow that roamed the world; no, he doesn't tell her, because that would be giving her power over him again and he must hold on to the thickening thread of self-respect with his entire being, lest they start their vicious cycle again.

There are many things he doesn't tell her.

He has never told her how much he regrets not being there for Dawn, not just when she died, but during that last year. He had practically forgotten about her until it was too late.

Can't tell her he's sorry for leaving and how much self-loathing he's done in the past few years after the soul; how the soul lets him see how dirty the world is and how she is the only one who can make it beautiful again. No, he definitely can't tell her.

He's a little jealous of her life now.

Smell of sunrise just a couple hours away hits him and reminds him that he needs to leave - it's a long walk to the airport.

Buffy sees the change in his feature and frowns. "Where you going next?"

Spike stares at the ceiling for a second, as if searching for the answer to her question in the light fixture. "Don't know. I'm thinking East Coast? Something soft on a bloke's eyes. But to tell ya the truth, 'm just hopping on the next plane out of town."

"You flew in?" Buffy asks, surprised, impressed and confused.

"Easier to leave the continent. I've driven from California to South America and back again and let me tell ya, not eager to do it again. Ships are comfortable, but I guess even vampires gotta go modern."

"So, you're leaving?" There's begging in her voice and she doesn't care.

"Probably for the best."

Under her breath, Buffy murmurs, "That's what they always say."

"Run that by me again?" Spike questions, flutters in his chest that feel an awful lot like a phantom heartbeat.

"I was just saying that I have an extra room that's not being used… and if you want, I mean, you shouldn't race the sun and I still don't have a car."

There is plenty of time for him to get to the Sunnydale airport and they both know it, but he doesn't call her on it. He does inquire on her offer, though. "What are you saying?"

He watches as Buffy goes on defensive mode, lines appearing on her forehead. "I'm not saying anything. Why do I always have to be saying something? It's just… I just think you should stay a little longer. I miss… I miss talking to someone," lower, just a shadow of a whisper that only vampire ears could catch, she adds "and I missed you."

Spike opens his mouth several times, but no actual words come out. He finally arches a scarred eyebrow and nods. "Staying until dusk then, I guess."

Chapter 10 – Epilogue

One night became a week, week became a month, and then it was too long for either of them to remember how temporary everything was supposed to have been.

As Buffy listens to the soft sounds of her daughter's breathing through the baby monitor, she thinks back to before - tries not to live in the past, but it's always there, making her laugh, cry, dream and hope.

The arm around her mid-section tightens and she wonders if she should wake him up… only a couple more hours until Ellie's voice begs for their attention, curtaining any sexual attempts on their part. If they are to partake in any morning lovemaking, he needs to be awakened soon; but one lengthy glance at him and she can't - he's too peaceful, too calm, too...

_...happy._

There's paint all over their room, staining the carpet that will be replaced in a few days. She never stopped redecorating; it took him a couple months, but he started to help. It was one of those unspoken things that always went on between them - just like they never talked about why he stayed, or why she hadn't wanted him to leave.

Sometimes they walk down Main Street just before midnight and they can pretend they're just young parents taking their child to a late-night stroll, hoping to end a fuss or tire the baby before putting her to bed. But they're not young; their spirits are old, old as legend, old as feeling.

At night they make chimerical dreams about the future, a mix of humor and truth and hope. They talk about the physical training club she's going to start, or the Stakes 'R Us store they're going to open in the vacant Magic Box building.

Those are the good moments, when they can pretend; but sometimes reality can be more than acceptable as well.

She tries not to think about the awkwardness of the first weeks, when they tiptoed around each other. Tries to forget how he unconsciously felt jealous, pushing Ellie away as the one part of Buffy he couldn't ever get back, not even for just a second. There were moments, when the bad memories were too overwhelming, when words were said and punches were thrown.

Spike hadn't been the only one to come back - demons, vampires, bad luck, sucky weather -, it all started again. The vampires and demons that had returned mostly kept out of the way of humans, most probably had heard the Slayer was back in town… it was almost like a welcome back parade, like a sign from the gods that there were things that were constant. Even a closed hellmouth was still a beacon for wandering souls.

After the night when they commemorated that morbid anniversary, it took three weeks until they started patrolling together... Buffy still worried about making sure she never got hurt, but she was more concerned for Ellie's safety than anything else.

It took another two weeks until he touched her again... eight weeks until she went to him.

Spike moved to her room on the fifteenth week.

It wasn't until much later-- the thirty-second week, perhaps-- that she found Spike in Ellie's room, grinning from ear to ear as Ellie reached one chubby little infant hand to him; he's been taken with the baby ever since.

He has cute nicknames for Ellie - choc chip, luvlet, belle; there's a new pet name every week, almost as if he enjoys thinking them up.

There's so much new about him that she is afraid sometimes. She knows now that she still loves him; she's just never been able to tell if she's _in love_ with him. Maybe being in love with Spike is one of those things she does without noticing, like throwing bad puns and checking on Ellie.

He's had difficulties adjusting to their relationship as well, and she knows. His eyes never lie, though - she still sees every ounce of his love on them.

Their relationship was like a book: for months it sat on a nightstand, marker peeking out from in between pages, but it had been too painful to pick it up again. And then one day, you just have to start again, because maybe the best part is still to come.

There are still countless unread pages, so you go through them at a leisurely pace, because you've learned to realize that the chapters between the beginning and the ending are the most important ones, and you try to make the best of them.

Each day a page turns, and Buffy remembers.

And they never stop falling.

**The End.**

**Author's Note (added on 4/25/2008): **This story was written back when we found out that at least one member of the inner Scooby gang would die in the finale, and that Spike would somehow end up on AtS—I tried to envision the worst case scenario, and I realized that losing Dawn would definitely drive a rift between Spike and Buffy, even enough to get him to leave for LA. As we know, it didn't turn out that way, but such is the gamble with fanfics :) Hope you've enjoyed it.


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